Making a Mentor
by Alexannah
Summary: CH3 UP! Who guided Albus Dumbledore? Who taught him to stand up for not only himself but others as well? Who took the bullied and abused twelve year old and made him the greatest wizard in the world? The answer will surprise you.
1. Prologue: A Storm in Time

**Summary:** Who created Albus Dumbledore? Who taught him how to use the gifts he was born with? Who took the bullied and abused twelve-year-old and moulded him into the leader we know now? Who let him see that love is the greatest power of them all? The answer will surprise you.

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Various Types of Abuse

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore belong to JKR …

**Author's Notes:** … However, I'm writing Albus in a different way to the seventh book (I'm not taking it, or HBP, into account). I can't help it. I always pictured him a shy, vulnerable child. (Or a spoiled brat, like in _Kiddie Kare_. But I'm going with the first one here.)

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**Making a Mentor**

By Alexannah

**Prologue: A Storm in Time**

When Harry was a child, he had always been terrified of storms. He couldn't help it. The slightest bit of thunder sent him scurrying into his cupboard, where it was at least dry. As he grew older, he had lost the fear and even, to a point, liked storms – he couldn't help but be awed by nature's power.

But the one currently shaking the Burrow to bits was too powerful even for him to admire.

It was almost impossible to hear each other. The rain was pelting down so hard Harry swore he could hear the roof creaking under the pressure. Thunder was cracking the purple-grey sky open every few seconds. The wind was shaking the house, tiles being whipped off the roof and scattered. Harry sat at the window, looking out in apprehensive awe, until -

"HARRY POTTER!"

He jerked around in time to see Mrs Weasley grab him by the scruff of his neck and drag him into the centre of the room, jerking the curtains shut behind him, as a huge clap of thunder sounded and the room was lit up with lightning.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you to _never_ look at lightning?" she fumed. "Idiot, Harry, you could have been blinded!"

"Sorry," Harry muttered, "I didn't know." Which was true – the Dursleys wouldn't have cared. He sighed and turned his back on the window, instead looking down at his Potions essay.

"This is useless," he muttered, scratching a line through the last few words. "I'll never make it into Potions NEWT."

"Give it here," Hermione sighed, "I'll see where you've gone wrong."

"Hermione, he really should be doing his own essay …"

"I know, I'm not doing it for him Mrs Weasley, just giving pointers." Hermione skimmed through the introductory paragraph. "That's not too bad, but you need to write more on the aconite …"

The storm outside raged on. Mrs Weasley glanced anxiously upwards as the wind rattled the roof. Ron and Ginny huddled by the fire, Crookshanks squashed between them and a bag of Chocolate Frogs. The rustling was driving Harry mad.

Mr Weasley was at the Ministry and Fred and George on an Order mission. Bill was at Headquarters and Charlie back in Romania. Mrs Weasley was sorting through old photograph albums she'd rescued from the attic after the roof began to leak.

"Oh look," she exclaimed, "my Hogwarts album! I forgot I had this. I wanted to be a photographer in my third year," she explained to Harry, brushing the dust off the cover. "I went everywhere with a camera and drove me teachers up the wall. Except my Potions Master, he encouraged me for all he was worth."

Harry smiled politely and looked back at his OWL results. He'd passed them all, save for History and Divination, which he didn't care about – the only thing he was disappointed by was the E for Potions. But, with the results had come a note from Snape, saying that due to "unexpected results" (Harry figured that meant no-one had got an Outstanding) he was setting a summer essay to determine which students were to sit the NEWT. The roll of half-written parchment on the worn kitchen table was Harry's last chance at becoming an Auror.

"There he is!"

"Who?"

Mrs Weasley turned the book round so Harry could see. "My Potions teacher, Professor Evans. And the headmaster as well."

Harry peered at the old photo. A younger, not-completely-silver-haired Dumbledore was standing with an arm round the shoulder of a shorter man with grey hair and glasses. Both were grinning widely at the camera, and by the look of things were standing by the lake.

"Lovely man," Mrs Weasley sniffed. "Arthur and I were his favourites, he was ever so nice – a little eccentric at times, and a bit accident-prone, but a wonderfully kind person. He died in my fourth year, everyone missed him. And poor Albus was distraught – they were brothers, you know."

"Really?" Harry couldn't see any resemblance between the two of them at all. "That's Dumbledore's brother? What was his name again?"

"Aberforth Evans-Dumbledore. I never did work out why he had a different surname. Maybe I should ask Albus next Order meeting. Anyway, contrary to popular opinion, they were actually very close, and Aberforth was such a good teacher. In fact, more Potions students got Outstanding in the few years he taught the subject than in the half-century leading up to it."

"Perhaps he could have helped me with this essay," Harry muttered. "Sorry, Mrs Weasley, this is really interesting but I've got to finish this."

"Oh, I'm sorry dear. I'll take these elsewhere. Perhaps Ron would like to see them. Ron? … What are you two laughing at?"

Harry looked up in time to have a Chocolate Frog thrust under his nose. "You might want to see that, Harry."

The words _Harry Potter_, his date of birth ad his parents' names were written above a grinning photograph of himself. Flipping it over, Harry read:

_Also known as the Boy-Who-Lived, and more recently the Chosen One, Potter was only a year old when the Killing Curse You-Know-Who tried to use on him backfired, leaving the baby with only a scar. Now in his Hogwarts years, Harry is described as being a wonderfully kind person, if occasionally reckless. He was the youngest Seeker in a century to be picked for a House team and is also very good at Defence Against the Dark Arts. Recent rumours following You-Know-Who's return describe him as being the wizarding world's only hope of salvation from the Dark Lord, but these have been neither confirmed nor denied.  
_  
"_What?_" Harry exclaimed. "I didn't give anyone permission to make a Frog card of me!"

"That would be something historical to show your grandchildren," Ron chuckled. "I'd keep it if I were you, Harry; you might laugh at it in a few years' time."

Harry doubted it but stuck the card in his pocket anyway.

"Can I see the Dumbledores?" Hermione asked curiously, sitting down next to Mrs Weasley. "Is that them?"

Harry zoned out, concentrating on his essay. What else could he write about the aconite? Harry gritted his teeth. If Snape had set them all the task of making another potion, he might have been in with a chance; but theory had always been his downfall. He would be lucky to get a P.

"They don't look anything alike," Hermione voiced Harry's opinion. "Maybe they were half-brothers and that's why they had different surnames. Did you never ask?"

"I never thought about asking," Mrs Weasley admitted. "Look, I've got a better photograph here."

"That's a nice one. Oh! What's he doing?"

There was a pause as Mrs Weasley peered closely at the photo, and then laughed. "They've swapped glasses! Oh, the old joker. My poor Professor, he could barely see without them."

Harry glanced quickly at the photo, intrigued. It seemed Albus Dumbledore had stolen his brother's glasses and Aberforth was waving Albus' in the air as he tried to snatch his own back. Harry grinned to himself and turned back to his essay.

"He has nice eyes," Hermione mused. "They look like Harry's." She paused. "Harry, wasn't Evans your mother's name?"

"Isn't that Dumbledore?" Ron interrupted.

Harry, assuming he was looking at the album as well, turned to answer Hermione, but stopped as he saw Ron by the window instead, the curtains pulled back.

"Ron, get away from the window!" Mrs Weasley hurried over. "Goodness, it's Albus! What's he _doing?_"

"It looks like he's just standing there," Hermione said nervously. Harry left the table and joined them.

About ten feet away from the house stood a still figure in a cloak, silver hair being whipped by the wind. It was a wonder he was still standing. Before Mrs Weasley could stop her, Hermione threw the window open. "PROFESSOR!"

"Hermione, close it!"

"We can't just leave him out there, what if something's wrong?" Harry said, peering out at the figure.

"It's a trap, Harry!" Mrs Weasley said, exasperated. "Look, he's right on the edge of the wards!"

"Isn't he just _inside_ the wards?" Ron corrected.

Harry picked up his cloak.

"Harry Potter, _don't you dare -_"

"You can't go out there -"

"If it's a trap, then it's obviously for me," Harry spoke over them loudly. "I'm not letting anyone else get hurt in my place." Grabbing his wand firmly, he pulled the door open.

As he stepped outside, his friends screaming at him to get his backside in _right now_, a bolt of lightning seemed to explode above his head. Before he could do anything, the world went dark and he felt as if he'd been struck by a powerful force …

**TBC …**


	2. Pink, Lace and Kitten Plates

**Summary:** Who created Albus Dumbledore? Who taught him how to use the gifts he was born with? Who took the bullied and abused twelve-year-old and moulded him into the leader we know now? Who let him see that love is the greatest power of them all? The answer will surprise you.

**Disclaimer:** see first chapter

Author's notes:

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**Chapter One: Pink, Lace and Kitten Plates**

Harry groaned softly. His head felt like it was about to explode. The sounds around him had changed: the thunder and lightning and thudding rain had gone. In the deafening silence Harry could just make out some distorted voices. He squinted, wincing at the pain in his head.

He was no longer outside, and definitely no longer in the Burrow. The walls were grey – stone perhaps? – and there were patches of white here and there. A few feet away from him stood two figures, the shorter one with a red head.

Ron?

Harry tried to sit up, but failed. The figures evidently spotted he was awake; they drew nearer and Harry blinked furiously, trying to get his eyes to focus. Where were his glasses?

"Can you sit up?" a sharp female voice said. Numbly he shook his head, then winced again as it protested violently. "Hmm. Keep your eyes open."

Harry tried not to blink, and a small light suddenly appeared in front of his face. He was reminded of being at a Muggle optician's as the light moved from one eye to the other. Finally, just as he thought his eyes would start watering, it vanished and he blinked.

"No concussion." Harry rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the pink and purple spots, and fumbled for his glasses. "What did you say was wrong with him?"

"Memory loss," a younger, male voice explained. As Harry's vision came back into focus, he saw the redhead was actually not Ron at all, but a boy a few years younger than him, wearing glasses and Hogwarts robes. "He's suffered from it ever since he was a child."

The woman – Harry saw she was in the same uniform Madam Pomfrey wore – nodded. "That seem to fit in. I shall leave you to explain to him where he is."

"Thank you, Madam Wormwood," the boy said quietly. When the matron was out of earshot, he hurried over to Harry's bed. "What's your name?"

"Um … Harry," Harry replied weakly. "Hi."

The redhead frowned. "What is?"

"I meant … hello," Harry muttered, confused. "Where am I?"

The boy glanced around, checking the matron wasn't coming back. "Hogwarts." When Harry stared blankly, he added, "The Hospital Wing."

"Where's Madam Pomfrey?"

"Who? … No, don't tell me. Where do you come from?"

"I was at the Burrow," Harry said quietly, more to himself as he tried to work out what happened. "And, there was a storm outside … and … I went out to meet Dumbledore …" The boy's eyes widened, "… and then … I was here." He frowned. "Where am I really? This isn't Hogwarts."

"Yes it is." The smile had vanished from the redhead's face. He looked sombre now. "Hogwarts 1856."

"You what?"

"You're a time-traveller," he said quietly.

Harry managed to sit up at that. "What – how -"

"I found this in your pocket," the boy said quickly, passing Harry the Chocolate Frog card he'd unwrapped half an hour ago. "I had to hide it from Madam Wormwood and the Headmistress. I told them your name was Aberforth Evans and you were a neighbour of my family's. I had to say something."

"Shrimp!"

The boy glanced behind. An older student was beckoning to him from the Hospital Wing doorway. "I have to go."

"Wait -!" Harry began, but the redhead had already scurried off. Harry squinted but the boy had become a blur. He fumbled around and finally found a pair of glasses on the bedside table. By the time he'd put them on and looked back, both the boy and the other student had vanished.

Looking down at the card, he re-read it and groaned. Thank Merlin the boy, whoever he was, had the sense to hide it. Not only did it have his name, date of birth and parents' names, the details on the blurb could change history in the wrong hands. Now he just had to keep it hidden and hope that he could trust the kid.

"Mr Evans?"

Harry, remembering what the redhead had said about his name, quickly stuffed the card out of sight and looked up. "Yes?"

The matron was standing a few feet away, wand in one hand and a potion vial in the other. "You need to drink this, it will help your memory loss. The dose is on the label, a capful twice a day. The Headmistress wishes to see you."

Harry blinked.

"I'm sure your friend will show you where her office is. Where did he go?"

"Er," Harry said awkwardly, "I'm not sure."

She sniffed. "He will turn back up. That is it; you may go."

-----

There was no sign of the younger boy. Harry made his way apprehensively to what in his time was Dumbledore's office, and now should be the office of whoever was Headmistress. He knew he looked very out-of-place in his T-shirt, jeans and jacket, but he couldn't help that. There didn't seem to be anyone about. Looking out the window, Harry saw it was dusk. He didn't even know what time of year it was – it could be any time in 1856, if the boy was right and that was where – when – he really was.

His hand tightened on his wand. If he or most of the students in his time had come across a time-traveller, they would have gone straight to Dumbledore. The fact that the boy had covered up for him made Harry very nervous and told him that he should be very careful who he chose to trust. Until he could find the kid, he would have to play along with the memory-loss story and pray that the Headmistress wasn't a Legilimens.

He stopped in front of the gargoyle and remembered with a sinking heart that he didn't know the password. And in this case, reciting the contents of Honeydukes sweet shop was unlikely to get him anywhere.

"Er," he said out loud, feeling rather stupid, "I'm … Aberforth Evans …" As he said the name, something familiar about it struck him, but he ignored it. "… the Headmistress wanted to see me?"

To his surprise, the gargoyle let him through. Trying for show to look as if he'd never seen anything like it before, Harry took the spiral staircase upwards and knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Harry swallowed and pushed the door open nervously. The sight inside made him stand still in shock. For a moment he thought it had all been a trick and he was back in Umbridge's office – the walls were pink, everything was covered in lace, and the horrible plates on the wall with the gambolling kittens were very familiar. Then he realised that though the contents were very similar, they were definitely not in Umbridge's office but the Headmistress', and the woman behind the desk was not Umbridge.

But boy did she look like her.

"I do apologise," she simpered, "I believe the sight can be a little startling to one who has not yet laid eyes on my office before."

_You could say that_, Harry thought.

"Come, sit!" The woman who looked – and sounded, although her voice wasn't _quite_ as honey-laced – so much like the teacher Harry had hated most (even more than Snape) stood and with a flick of her wand a chair appeared before her desk. Harry slowly lowered himself into the puce cushion, looking around and trying to show curiosity and not too much revulsion.

"Well, Mr – Evans, is it?" she inquired sweetly.

"Um, so I've been told," Harry answered warily, remembering he was supposed to have amnesia.

"Quite, quite. I understand, it must be very hard not to know who one is, not so much as their own name."

Was it a test? Harry nodded, trying to keep his face a blank. "I was told I've suffered from it for a long time, but I don't remember."

She laughed a little. "Of course not," she said. "But never mind, it will not last forever. Now, I have been informed that your family have been having a hired tutor for you since you were old enough to attend school, am I correct?"

"Er …" Harry frowned, making a show of desperately trying to remember something. The Headmistress patted his arm in a gesture that Harry took to seem like sympathy.

"Oh, I am sorry. It must be horrible for you. Do not strain yourself, I will stop asking you questions and will tell you what I know. Now. From what your little friend tells me, your tutor has become unavailable and you have been sent to my school here to receive your education."

"That sounds familiar," Harry said slowly, thinking he should make it seem like he wasn't completely mind-wiped.

"Excellent! It looks like Madam Wormwood's potion is working." Harry had actually measured out a capful of the potion and tipped it into a potted plant on the way. He had originally been going to tip the lot, then thought he'd better not in case someone checked to make sure he was taking it and found the bottle empty. "However, we mustn't expect miracles. I'm sure your friend can help you out. Now, if you are to be a student at my school, you must be Sorted."

Harry knew perfectly well what she meant, but tried to look curious. "Sorted, Headmistress?" Calling a person Headmistress was the strangest experience so far.

"Into your House. We have four. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Each of our Houses has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn you House points and any rule-breaking will lose your House points. At the end of the year – that is not until June – the House with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour." Harry wondered what Professor McGonagall would have to say if she knew her speech had come almost word for word from Umbridge's grandmother. "To Sort students we have the Sorting Hat."

Harry braced himself for the worst as the Hat was placed on his head. He knew what he had to do.

'I'm from the future,' he thought immediately. 'Please just put me in Gryffindor and don't look into my head, I can't tell or show you anything I know or I'll change history.'

There was silence for a long moment. "From the future, you say? I haven't heard _that_ one before."

'Please, don't look in my head,' Harry begged. 'Just put me in Gryffindor and don't ask me anything.'

"Very well …"

'Wait!' Harry suddenly thought. 'Can you tell me who I can trust?'

"That's a difficult question, young man. I cannot answer it without delving into your head past the surface thoughts and seeing what you deem trustworthy."

'Forget it, then,' Harry thought bitterly. 'But – can you tell me this boy's name? Red hair, looks about twelve, wears glasses -'

"I see an image. I think you know who he is."

'I do? Who?'

"The Headmistress is getting impatient. I must say goodbye now, young man."

Harry heard the Hat announce Gryffindor and pulled it off his head. _That_ had been helpful. Not.

**TBC …**

AN: Theories welcome. Please don't review just to ask me to update. Make it worth the alert please. I get alert/favourite plus alerts to tell me when someone enjoys a story, the reviews are supposed to give more information than that.

**Review Responses**

**ChipmonkOnSpeed:** I didn't know there was such a market. If only. And even I get writers' block. Hmm, maybe I should have sold my talent to JKR, then she might not have missed that little ADMM hint in CoS and got all the shippers' hopes up. She needs a better editor.  
Or, if I sold it to her now, she might correct herself to make it canon. Pity you can't bottle talent. Not without a lobotomy. And not even the promise of canon!ADMM will convince me to have one of them.  
Now I'm rambling.

Thanks also to **GEM8** and **Rosaleen** for reviewing!


	3. Do Your Own Homework

_**Last chapter:**__ Harry heard the Hat announce Gryffindor and pulled it off his head. __That__ had been helpful. Not._

**Chapter Two: Do Your Own Homework  
**  
The bed made up for him was the same one Harry had in his own time. He chuckled darkly at the irony, but the humour vanished a moment later.

The reality of his situation was beginning to sink in. He was stuck in the past with no-one to go to for help, under the rule of a relative of Umbridge's (if she wasn't related at all, Harry would eat his hat – once he was reunited with it in the present) and the only person who knew of his predicament was a younger student whom he didn't even know if he could trust.

He had to decide on a plan of action. Only after he figured out what had happened to him could he find a way to get home. So. First things first.

Find the boy.

His watch didn't seem to be working – Harry had removed it and hidden it under his bed so no-one could ask about the digital face – but he could tell it must be nearing curfew because he could hear the sounds of the common room filling up with students. If the kid wasn't a Gryffindor, Harry would have to wait till the next day to hunt for him – but he hoped he'd be in the same House. It would make everything easier.

_Please let the boy be a Gryffindor_, Harry pleaded silently as he made his way down the stairs.

His first piece of luck so far in this time: as Harry scanned the common room at the bottom of the stairs, he spotted a mop of red hair and a pair of glasses bent over a stack of textbooks.

_Bingo. Thank you, Fate._

Harry sidled over to the boy and sat down in the empty seat next to him. The kid didn't pay him any attention, the end of the quill in his mouth as he chewed a question over. Harry glanced at the page. Arithmancy.

"Are you a third-year?" Harry asked in surprise. The kid looked barely a day over ten.

There was a yelp and a tinkle of breaking glass, and then a moan as a black ink stain started growing on the parchment. Harry hastily dabbed at it with his sleeve. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump."

"That's all right. It hasn't stained too badly. At least it didn't cover up anything I wrote." The redhead pulled out a handkerchief and wiped off as much of the ink as he could. "And no, I'm a first-year. It was my twelfth birthday last week, if you want to know." He glanced sideways at Harry for the first time. "Oh, it's you."

Harry ginned unsurely. "Yeah, me, the amnesiac. Out of curiosity, what made you tell them that?"

The boy shrugged. "You were unconscious when I found you; the chances were you had travelled back by accident and would not be aware of the fact until you came around. I had a feeling telling them you routinely suffered from memory loss would be preferable to telling them you were on release from an asylum, even though the latter would mean not taking the risk that you would say something futuristic in front of them before I could tell you when you were."

"Er … thanks," Harry said, somewhat taken aback. "I've had enough of people thinking I'm loony. Which leads me to my second question: why did you cover up for me in the first place? You don't trust the staff?"

The redhead gave him a withering glance. "Have you met the Headmistress?"

"Good point." Harry racked his brains for another of the million and one questions. Instead he settled with, "If you're a first-year, how come you're doing Arithmancy homework? In my time it doesn't get taught till third year …"

For some reason the boy seemed to withdraw into himself at this question, and mumbled something that sounded like "Here as well", but Harry's question was answered by someone else.

"_Bourdon!_ What have you done to my homework?" a boy howled, hurrying over to the table. Harry glanced at him. He looked fifth year at least.

"I-I'm s-sorry," the redhead stammered, but before Harry could say or do anything the older student seized him by the collar and held a fist to his face.

"That work is due in tomorrow, Four-Eyes. Write it out again or -"

Harry finally pulled himself out of his shock and stood, drawing his wand. "Put him down."

The common room seemed to freeze. Everyone was watching the scene.

"Who in heaven's name are you?" the older student sneered. He somewhat resembled Draco Malfoy, only with darker hair and more heavily built.

"Doesn't matter who I am, what matters is the fact that there are a hundred and one very painful spells in my head that I can choose from if you don't release that boy now."

The first-year yelped as he fell back onto his chair.

"You're new," the fifth-year stated, looking Harry up and down, who had changed into Hogwarts robes befitting the time period before he came downstairs. "And obviously not used to the ways of this school yet." He drew his own wand and waved it in front of Harry's face. "These are of no use outside classes, New Boy. And outside classes there are no rules." He tucked his wand back in his pocket.

Someone tugged on Harry sleeve and the boy's voice whispered, "Harry, just leave it."

The Malfoy-look-alike seemed to be bracing himself for something. Harry suddenly twigged and ducked to one side as he lunged at him with his fist out. Harry twisted round and caught the bully's arms firmly from behind in a move Dudley's gang had learnt to avoid letting him perform.

"I don't believe in violence," Harry said in a low voice, although the whole common room heard. "Quite frankly, I've had enough of it. I don't want to hurt anyone. But if you go near this kid again, you've got me to answer to. Right?" Without waiting for an answer, he dropped the bully. The whole room stared in silence as Harry beckoned to the redhead and the two retreated upstairs, leaving the uncompleted homework behind.

"Is it really not possible to use magic outside classes?" was Harry's first question as he shut the door to his dormitory. The kid nodded. "That's something I've never heard of. Guess it wasn't boring enough for my History teacher to cover in class."

The redhead chuckled a little, but his face looked anxious. "I'm sorry, I would have warned you but it didn't cross my mind it might be different in your time."

"That's okay." At the puzzled look, he corrected himself. "Alright. Sorry. I'll try and stick to less colloquial language."

"Your world must really be different."

Harry nodded. "I suppose so. I haven't really experienced enough of yours to compare properly though. But …" he added, turning serious, "Some things never seem to change. I never realised the nickname 'Four-Eyes' went so far back."

The boy hung his head. "Oh, that. It's because I wear glasses, you see."

"Well, yes, I know _that_ – do you think these things are just for decoration?" Harry gestured to his own pair. "I've had my fair share of being called names. In fact, I'm sure I exceeded the average. My point is, I know exactly how you feel." Harry took a deep breath. "Your name's … Bourdon, right? What's your first name?"

"Albus," the boy said quietly.

By now something inside Harry's memory was screaming at him, but he still couldn't work out what.

"Right. Albus. I think we have a few things to talk about, you and me … starting with the concept of bullying."

**TBC …**


	4. The Ways of the School

**Author's note:** Here I am again, back at last! For those who haven't heard yet, I've recently become heavily involved in the Buffy fandom. My BtVS plot bunnies are breeding as fast as the HP ones – faster, at the moment, as it's all new and fresh and exiting. (That's the problem with new ideas – it's too tempting to work only on them and forget the older stuff you actually have readers hanging on by the fingertips for.) I'm being a little more balanced now, forcing myself to think of Harry fics, preferably the older ones that badly need inspiration. And, although I'm posting some Buffy stuff (one fic started on my profile, called _A Little Compassion_ – please go and read if you like Spuffy!), I'm being careful how many I start writing out at a time. I learnt my lesson with the HP stories – when you get a new idea, jot down everything you can think of, and then ignore it and work on something you've already got going well. Difficult, but when I actually stick to the rule, it works.  
As a note of interest, the name "Bourdon" I got from the French for "bee" (I couldn't find a translation for "bumblebee" anywhere). I also used the name as Albus' brief alias in _See No Evil, Speak No Evil_.

_**Last chapter:**__ "Right. Albus. I think we have a few things to talk about, you and me … starting with the concept of bullying."_

**Chapter Three: The Ways of the School  
**  
Harry learnt quickly. Hogwarts now was nothing like it was in the future.

Wands couldn't be used in corridors or common rooms. There was some kind of ward blocking the magic. Which Harry considered could be a good idea in theory, as it prevented wizard duels blowing up all the time, but in fact led to physical fighting – and on a very regular basis.

"It's all about power," Albus explained to Harry. "Not just magical power, that will do you no good if you're ever without a wand. Power is in politics, money, blood status, the mind, and if necessary in the fist."

"And the teachers just let them get on with it?" Harry asked, dumbstruck.

"It's supposed to be good training for adult life. You learn what the real world is like early enough to adapt to it, so you don't fall under when you're pushed out there."

Which again could be okay in theory, but as far as Harry could see it regularly got too rough for his liking. Albus wasn't the only younger student being picked on, although he seemed to be one of the more regular victims. According to the twelve-year-old, since the ban on magic outside the classroom had been enforced magically nearly seven decades ago, several students had died from injuries sustained in between-class fights, and most were in first or second year with Muggle blood.

Overall, Harry was strongly reminded of his primary school days when Dudley's gang were the kings of the playground and no-one dared stand up to them. Albus also reminded him of himself a lot: he too was short and skinny, with a pale, pinched face and something in his eyes that unsettled him – they looked haunted, and Harry wondered why but dared not ask. Although he had let Harry befriend him, he also seemed shy and unwilling – or incapable – to trust easily.

Everything about this time made him uneasy. He'd got used to answering to his alias now, and fortunately the teachers didn't seem to be too bothered about keeping an eye on him, making the charade easier. But he worried. Instinct told him he could trust Albus Bourdon, but with an Umbridge in charge and the school how it was, the sooner he got back to 1996 the better.

-----

A whole week after his arrival, Harry decided enough was enough. "Albus, can you help me? Look, I really appreciate your help with covering up who I am and everything, but I really need to get back home and you're the only one who can help me."

"What makes you think that I can?"

"The fact that a student four years above you is willing to make you do his homework, and the way you came up with a cover for me so quickly. And, it's probably a coincidence, but I know an Albus in my time as well and he's an utter genius. So, please, I know you can help me figure this out."

Albus took a deep breath. "Fine, but first you have to tell me exactly what happened when you were transported backwards. You mentioned something about a storm?"

"Yeah – I think I must have been struck by lightning or something. But I don't see how that could send me back a hundred and forty years."

"Was that the last thing you remember then before you woke up here?" Albus pressed. Harry nodded.

"Yes. There was a storm, I was at my friend's house, I saw Dumbledore out the window and went out to see what he wanted. That's it."

There was a long pause before Albus spoke.

"Who's Dumbledore?"

"Oh – just … someone I know. Why?"

"I didn't think there were any Dumbledores left, that's all. I thought my mother was the last one."

Harry blinked. "Your mum was called Dumbledore?"

Albus nodded. "It was her maiden name. Does that mean I have relatives other than my father?"

"_Your_ mum was called Dumbledore?" Harry said again dumbly.

"Yes … Why?"

Harry looked the boy up and down, his brain spinning. "The man I went out to meet, the one called Dumbledore? _His_ first name is Albus. Albus … Dumbledore … Oh my …"

Red hair. Blue eyes. Glasses. First name Albus. Mother's maiden name Dumbledore. No other relations with the name. And he had mentioned that he kept a stash of Chocolate Frogs in his dormitory.

Harry finally let out an expletive. Albus blinked.

"What does that mean?"

"I'll tell you when you're older."

He was saved! Sitting in front of him was none other than his Headmaster – albeit a somewhat younger version. The genius. The one Harry had always looked to for answers.

"It's you!" he finally choked out. "Bloody hell! … Sorry. But … yes!"

Albus now looked thoroughly puzzled. "You mean … you know _me_ in the future?"

Harry nodded. "It has to be you."

"Wow. You mean I live to a hundred and fifty-two?"

Harry chuckled. "And still young at heart. But … this is brilliant! You _are_ a genius, Albus, you're the cleverest person I've ever met. If anyone can help me get home, it's you."

Albus' smile faded, and he dropped his eyes. "I can't."

"What?"

"I can't help you."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked incredulously.

Albus looked up at him, and Harry saw with a jolt that his eyes held the same solemn expression that had been in them the last time they had spoken in the present.

"I'm … really sorry, Harry. But … if lightning brought you back here … there's only one way that's possible."

"And that is?"

"By a Time Storm." Albus took a deep breath. "They exist solely to complete history – destiny. If it brought you back here, that means there is something in this time you have to do – something important. Maybe even more than one thing, I don't know. But you cannot return to your time when you've done it … there's no way for you to get home."

**TBC …**


	5. Not Going Anywhere

_**Last chapter:**__ "Time Storms … exist solely to complete history … There's no way for you to get home."_

**Chapter Four: Not Going Anywhere  
**  
Harry could never return to the future.

He would never see his friends again. Never see the older counterpart of his only friend here again. Never see the Weasleys, Hermione, any of the Order.

Albus may only be twelve years old but Harry trusted that the boy knew what he was talking about. Still, it was extremely hard to accept. Harry went through the next few weeks as if in a dream; one he desperately wanted to wake from but knew deep down that he could not.

In the end, he was only able to pull himself out of it for Albus. The boy did not ask Harry for anything, but Harry had seen enough of the way the other students, particularly the older pure-bloods, treated him that he needed to do something about it.

Albus, it turned out, knew more defensive spells than half the teachers. This, though, did not get him very far due to the no-magic rule, so Harry started telling Albus stories of how he avoided trouble with Dudley's gang back in primary school. They met up in the Room of Requirement, which usually took the form of the Gryffindor common room, only without the bustle of other students. It also supplied them with drinks of hot chocolate. Unfortunately, the room's magic did not stretch as far as to supply them with the drinks ready and waiting, but there was always a table laid out with mugs and ingredients for them.

Harry managed to catch up with his classmates in his subjects, and was greatly surprised when he managed to get an Outstanding in his first Potions essay. The Potions Master in this time, Professor Ealing, was encouraging and helpful and told Harry he had a talent that until now had gone unnoticed. Once Harry had gained some more confidence in his previously worst subject area, he found he was coming top of the class.

In NEWT year, Harry had the option of taking two of an extra three courses: Ancient Magic, Time Studies and Healing. The Headmistress had given him till Easter to decide. Harry thought, considering his situation, Time Studies was a given. He did wonder about Ancient Magic, but thought Healing would be useful even if he didn't become a Healer.

By the time the Easter holidays had arrived, Harry and Albus had built a firm friendship, one Harry treasured as all he had. The school was closing for the school holiday, and Albus was going home but Harry planned to hide in the Room of Requirement, having no place of his own.

The fortnight was fairly lonely. Harry finished his homework and made a few potions for practise, but without Albus around he felt the painful isolation of the time period even stronger. He wondered about his friends, a century in the future, not knowing what had happened to him. He should ask Albus to tell them, when he was the older Professor Dumbledore. So they would know.

Eventually the holidays ended and Harry slipped out of the Room of Requirement when he heard the other students making their way back to their dormitories. Back in the Gryffindor common room, he found Albus sitting still on one of the chairs, staring into the fire.

"Hi," Harry said, sitting down next to him. "How was your holiday?"

The look Albus gave Harry shocked him. The boy had got used to Harry's accidental colloquialisms, it wasn't the word "hi" that was the reason behind it. Albus had not just confusion, but anxiety and sorrow written all over his face.

"Albus, what's wrong?" Harry asked, finding his voice after a moment of stunned silence.

The boy forced a smile. "Nothing. My holiday was good. How was yours?"

"Don't change the subject." Harry frowned. It had taken him a while to notice because of Albus' fringe, but there was a large, fresh bruise sprouting on one side of his forehead. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Albus' voice went up a notch in pitch as Harry pointed to the bruise. "N-nothing – _ouch_." He winced as he put a hand up to cover it.

Harry looked Albus up and down, and spotted several things. One, there were bruises on his arm as well; this combined with the "ouch" signified a sprain or worse. Two, Albus was sitting straight up and trying not to move, which signified a broken rib or two, And three, as Albus saw Harry noticing these things a panicked look appeared in his eyes. Add these together with the fact that Albus had just returned from home and Harry knew exactly what he was looking at.

"Okay, Albus," Harry said quietly. "Come to the Room of Requirement, we'll get you fixed up, okay?"

Perhaps it was the fact that Harry had suggested the Room of Requirement and not the Hospital Wing that made Albus let Harry lead him out of Gryffindor Tower. When they arrived in the room, Harry saw it had become a smaller version of the Hospital Wing with just one bed, which Albus sat down on.

There was a funny-looking rod, and a number of Healing textbooks which Harry looked at. Albus watched him anxiously.

"Harry, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Yes," Harry lied, not wanting to make Albus any more uncomfortable than he already was. "I've done this loads of times. Just refreshing my memory."

He wasn't sure Albus believed him, and was pretty sure that he would not believe himself if the roles were reversed, but the boy did not protest and waited quietly. Harry ran the Healer's Rod gently over Albus' bruise, and the colour of the tip changed to confirm it wasn't major enough to need treatment. Albus' wrist, however, was fractured and he had two broken ribs.

Madam Pomfrey could mend bones in about a minute. With Harry, inexperienced and following instructions, it took a lot longer. Albus kept quiet, barely a whimper escaping, while Harry slowly knit his bones back together with the rod and his wand together, bit by bit. Harry had a feeling Albus, like he himself had been as a child, was well-practised at keeping quiet.

When it was finally done, Albus gave Harry a weak smile and thanked him in a soft voice.

"According to this, it'll still be sore for a while," Harry told him. "The longer it was broken for the more so." He replaced the books on the shelf, which vanished as he no longer had need for them.

"I can live with that," Albus said.

He was avoiding meeting Harry's eye, and Harry was certain he knew why. "Albus," he said gently, "Who did this to you?"

Albus squared his shoulders. "It was an accident."

"Come on, Albus," Harry said, "I know you're smart enough to realise that I won't believe that." Silence. Harry sighed. "Your father, maybe?"

The look on Albus' face read clearly that Harry had guessed right. He sat down beside Albus and laid an arm lightly around his shoulders.

"Look at me, Albus." The boy reluctantly did so. "I've been there, all right? My uncle and cousin were bullies. I went through ten-odd years of this. I know how you feel."

"Really?"

"You feel rejected by those that are supposed to love you. You feel useless and helpless. And you somehow feel that it must be your fault that they treat you this way. Am I right?"

Albus gave a wobbly smile. "You really went through it, then?"

Harry nodded. "Oh yes. Believe me, I've felt it all. But you know what I found, when I came to Hogwarts?" Albus shook his head. "It wasn't me with the problem. It was them. They hated magic and they took it out on me. I did nothing except exist."

A tear escaped one of Albus' eyes and Harry wiped it away gently.

"My mother," Albus whispered. "She died the day I was born. She died _because_ I was born. Father always said I should never have existed, then she would still be alive."

"Well, sorry for being blunt, Albus, but your dad is talking out of his backside. I'm sure if your mum had the choice, she would choose for _you_ to live. Because that's what mums do. They put their kids first. Mine died for me." Harry smiled sadly. "I've wrestled with that quite a bit. It's not something I really talk about normally. But it's natural to feel guilty about it, even if there was nothing we could do to stop it. Your dad, on the other hand – if he can't accept that you are a precious human being and deserve life as much as anyone, then he is the one with the problem, not you."

Harry couldn't remember the last time he had made a speech that long. By the end of it, Albus was leaning into his arms, silent tears leaking into Harry's robes.

"I wish I'd had someone come along and say this kind of stuff to me when I was your age," Harry murmured. "But I can give you the benefit of my own experience. I reckon that's got to be worth coming back a hundred and forty years for."

"No-one's ever told me I'm worth anything," Albus said with a slight hiccup. "You're not like everyone else."

"Albus, you're a great kid. And when you grow up, you'll be a truly amazing person, believe me. I know right now you feel like the world's against you, but I promise that won't always be the case. And I'm not going anywhere, am I?" Harry chuckled. "You've always got me."

* * *

Harry kept an extra vigilant eye on Albus after the revelation, but he seemed to be slightly happier now that the burden was shared. There was still something Harry could sense troubling the boy, though, and Harry didn't find out what until two weeks later, when they were working in an empty classroom.

Students were not allowed in classrooms unsupervised, so when the two of them heard footsteps, they dived into a cupboard, and therefore were able to hear the entire conversation.

"Headmistress." Harry recognised the voice as belonging to the Transfiguration teacher. His name was Professor Hopkirk, and reminded Harry of Snape in his mannerisms. "We have a message from Mr Bourdon."

Harry felt Albus stiffen beside him, and remembered with a jolt that that was Albus' surname – at least in this time.

"Is the next piece ready?" Umbridge asked in her sweetly poisonous voice.

"Yes, but there's some bad news." There was a pause. "The boy knows."

"Boy?" Umbridge asked. "_His_ boy, you mean? The first-year? How on earth does he -"

"He saw the plans, Headmistress. That child is a genius, he will work it out easily enough, and he could go to the Ministry any day."

"Can't Bourdon keep the boy under control?" Umbridge sounded distinctly angry now.

"Not while he's here, Headmistress; he says that is up to us."

There was a long silence. Harry realised Albus was shaking, and squeezed his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

"He is too dangerous with that knowledge," Umbridge spoke at last. "We will have to dispose of him."

Albus gave a small gasp beside him and Harry clamped a hand over the boy's mouth.

Professor Hopkirk looked shocked. "How?"

"Next time he receives a detention, send him to me. I shall deal with him."

"But Headmistress … If the boy dies on school premises … There will be questions asked; investigations -"

"I know," Umbridge snapped. "We just need to make it look like an accident for long enough until we're ready to move to the final operation. Just make sure you get the boy for something, Hopkirk. We cannot afford anyone getting in our way, and he knows too much."

"Yes, Headmistress."

**TBC …**


End file.
